The other side of life for most of the population here is the one which is not behind manicured gardens and high walls but the scenes that unfold on the way to school or on the way into Delhi. Now with the construction of the Delhi metro there are migrant workers living in makeshift corrugated iron huts and every morning I drive past I see them brushing their teeth with their neem sticks and meticulously washing themselves in preparation for a day of toil and grime. Then in the evening, unwinding, the cooking of a meal over an open fire, a game of cards with friends, or just sleeping out on their charpoys because they are physically exhausted. I can think of the intensity of the sun and the noise of the monsoon rain hitting the corrugated roofs, but I do not live it, I can glimpse at their meager possessions hanging from a nail on the iron wall and cannot imagine it, I can construct conversations in my head of all the things I would want to ask them about their lives and never dare it and can wonder at their expectation of life and be amazed by it.